Review by Darren Kerr
I don't get it. Sure this CD is all very reckless and chock-full of raise-your-meaty-tattooed-fist-and-yell slogans for the punters who are somewhere in between carpal-tunnel-by-joystick and early cirrhosis, but it's as flat and lifeless as the loser of a frathouse drinking contest. It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that sting, zing or swing.
Maybe, just maybe, this is the only one of their discs that craves acceptance from the new bland order of kids who like their punk MTV limp. I'm gonna have to listen to Journey to the Center of Your Wallet or My Machine and get back to ya.
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